Chapter 3 - the score in the pink notebook
By seven o'clock the following morning, the sweet scent of cinnamon, melted butter, and fresh pastry filled the warm air of Claire’s Corner Bakery on Fifth Street.
Claire stood behind the wooden counter in a simple white apron over her jeans, dusting flour onto a marble prep table. Her hands were busy, but her mind was racing. Ever since she had walked out of the restaurant the previous evening, she had felt a strange, electric tension hanging over her quiet life.
Outside the front glass windows, two heavy black SUVs sat parked across the street. Four broad-shouldered men in tailored suits stood casually on the corner, keeping an eye on the street.
The brass bell above the bakery door chimed merrily.
Adrien Moretti stepped inside. He had shed his beige suit jacket, wearing an open-collar white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled slightly over his muscular forearms, revealing his luxury watch and a subtle glimpse of dark tattoos near his wrist.
Sophie, sitting at a corner table with her pink notebook, immediately clicked her pen. “Mr. Adrien is back. Points added for punctuality.”
Claire set her rolling pin down, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Adrien, you can't have your guards standing outside my shop. It’s scaring my regular morning customers.”
“My guards are keeping your shop safe, Claire,” Adrien said smoothly, walking up to the counter and leaning against the polished wood. “And I’m buying out your entire tray of morning cinnamon rolls.”
Lily trotted out from the kitchen, holding a small plastic tray. “He can have the bear claws too, Mommy!”
Claire looked at Adrien, seeing the genuine warmth in his eyes as he looked at their daughters. “Adrien... we need to talk. Privately.”
They stepped into the quiet rear kitchen. Claire leaned against the prep table, her brown hair tied back, her fair skin flushed from the heat of the ovens.
“Five years ago, after you left, a man named Marcus Valenti came to my shop,” Claire revealed softly, her voice filled with old fear. “He said you were dead, Adrien. He told me if I stayed in Chicago, my babies would be taken away by the syndicate.”
Adrien’s expression instantly turned into a dangerous, ice-cold mask. Marcus Valenti—the ruthless head of a rival crime family who had tried to usurp the Moretti territory five years ago.
“Valenti lied to you,” Adrien growled softly, his broad hand coming down gently over hers on the flour-dusted table. “He used your fear to push you into hiding so I wouldn't have a family to protect.”
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Emma stepped into the kitchen doorway, holding her pastel ribbon in her hand. “Mommy, the mean man with the silver car is outside again.”
Adrien’s head snapped toward the front window.
